Iceland

First Impressions

A red-eye flight. Just before landing, I looked down and saw Iceland — a dark island sitting in a deep grey sea. I arrived early in the morning, every pore in my body heavy with exhaustion. The bus tickets to the Blue Lagoon had already sold out online, so I decided to take my chances at the station. Waiting outside, in mid-June it was still bitterly cold. I had on a fleece with a rain jacket over it, and I still curled up shivering. Looking around, there were hardly any people, just a vast sky with the faint outline of mountains on the horizon.

As it turned out, I got lucky — I ran into a handsome young man with a clean, gentle, unassuming smile. I'm always drawn to that kind of personality; it seems to calm my quick temper and restless desires. :-) I explained that I hadn't been able to buy a ticket online, and he happily offered to take me along. I asked if I could pay him in cash, and he said it wasn't necessary — the kind of laid-back attitude that seemed to fit him perfectly. So what I thought would be a taxi ride turned into a free lift.

By the way, Iceland's expensiveness isn't the ordinary expensiveness of a big city — it's island expensiveness. Everything has to be shipped in. A twenty-minute taxi ride costs eighty or ninety euros. Even the bus costs forty euros — five times what it would in the US.

Blue Lagoon

The famous Blue Lagoon sits among black, rolling hills — pools of milky blue water rising with steam. Just looking at it warmed my heart instantly. Nearby, a few chimneys puffed away steadily, breathing out white vapor — harnessing geothermal energy, most likely. Iceland's energy is 100% renewable: 70% hydro, 30% geothermal.

While changing, I realized I'd lost one of my earrings — probably while adding a layer at the airport. I hurried to make sure my pearl-and-pineapple necklace from Hawaii was safely tucked away.

The wind off the sea was ice-cold — a cold head and a hot body, a clear mind and a burning one. A thick smell of sulfur hung in the air. Wherever there was a hot spring, there were tall chimneys puffing white steam, drawing on the geothermal heat below.

Several large pools, warm and inviting. I jumped in — what relief, every blood vessel in my body seemed to loosen. I soaked for about three hours, tried four different face masks, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. When I checked the time, it was about right to get going. But back in the changing room, I realized my beloved pearl-and-pineapple necklace from Hawaii was gone. I thought maybe I'd tucked it somewhere and forgotten, that it would turn up — so I packed up and left. But it never turned up. It was really gone, and to this day I'm still not sure how I lost it.

On the bus back to the city, I ran into the same warm-hearted young man again. He patiently explained how to get from the main bus terminal to my hotel.

On the drive from the airport into town: a grey-blue sea, green grass, patches of water here and there, white seabirds, the occasional boat, small white houses with pink roofs scattered about — like a spotless fairy-tale world. I notice I've already used the word "spotless" several times. That really is the feeling Iceland gives me — clean scenery, clean air, a clean spirit. In June, Iceland is covered in vast fields of blooming purple wildflowers. I later looked it up and learned these are lupines — the flower from that old Taiwanese song. Lupines aren't native to Iceland; they were introduced to help stabilize the soil, but their vitality was so strong that they've since taken over, even threatening native plants. As we drove into the city, under a clear blue sky with clean streets, and with a handsome stranger beside me, I suddenly found myself utterly charmed by Iceland.

The driver dropped me off at the wrong hotel. I borrowed a phone from a girl sitting on a bench nearby — she was from northern Italy, waiting for a friend. She had that clean, simple quality to her, and her smile was like a passing cloud.

The transport company sent a small shuttle to take me to the right hotel. This driver was from Poland — another person with a warm, friendly smile. It struck me as strange: why does everyone in Iceland seem so clean-cut, so calm and even-tempered, as if life here holds no worries at all? I suppose Iceland simply attracts people of a similar spirit.

The hotel had no front desk. After booking, you receive an email with your room number and a door code — the code gets you into both the hotel and your room. It took some getting used to, like being run by some hidden machine behind the scenes. But thinking it over, it really is efficient — it cuts down on staffing needs. By the time I reached the hotel, I was famished, so I ordered the so-called Icelandic specialty — lamb soup with potatoes and carrots stewed together. It was delicious! Once I'd eaten my fill, curiosity got the better of me, and I checked my credit card statement. I was shocked — one bowl of soup cost twenty-seven dollars. After that, I simply stopped asking prices; I'd just glance at the bill later. Everything was absurdly expensive anyway, so why torture myself over it? Better to just enjoy the trip.

At midnight, the sky was the pale color of a fish's belly, and cars were still passing on the street outside. It was a strange sensation. My body was exhausted, but my mind kept spinning, refusing to rest, like some kind of perpetual motion machine. I drew the thick curtains closed, blocking out the light, and finally felt drowsiness creeping in. I switched off the lamp and lay down quickly, afraid my body would start running again if I didn't.

Reykjavik

Reykjavik — right up until I left, I still couldn't pronounce this city's name.

Bus ride to downtown

It was a fairly typical Icelandic summer morning — damp air, thick clouds hanging in the sky, wind tossing my hair every which way. Cold. I'd wrapped myself in a bright pink raincoat to add some color to the city, bundled up like a rice dumpling. Yet the locals still greeted me cheerfully: "What a beautiful day."

I was delighted to have figured out the public bus system in Iceland — suddenly I felt like a local. Reykjavík's buses are so convenient: just tap your credit card, no need to buy a ticket, and every stop has an electronic display showing arrival times for each route. Using Google Maps to navigate, I moved through this unfamiliar city with a kind of transportation fluency I hadn't felt in a long time. Just as I was feeling pleased with myself, I realized — after boarding the No. 1 bus and riding for a while — that something was off. I was heading further and further from downtown. I quickly got off and turned back.

I couldn't imagine how the locals live here 365 days a year. I'd come during summer, the three best months of the year. Yesterday it was clear and sunny; today, cold rain. The temperature swings between 40 and 50 degrees Fahrenheit. A cold wind blew through, chilling — how do people here get through the remaining nine long months? The endless winter, entire days of darkness?

At midnight the sky was still bright, and people moved through the streets like perpetual motion machines — as long as the sun hadn't set, their feet wouldn't stop, until exhaustion finally caught up with them. In my head, I started sketching out a science-fiction film.

Icelandic architecture is simple, yet its structure and color achieve a kind of perfect balance. Grey-white walls, red or blue roofs — like little fairy-tale cottages. Walking the streets, I encountered only a scattering of people here and there. The residential buildings are simple and practical, sturdy and solid — none of the ornate decoration you'd find on the European continent, but also none of the flimsiness of American plywood houses. Through the windows, the sills were usually lined with a few pieces of art or a few potted flowers. The people of Iceland seem to live their days with quiet contentment.

The church, the concert hall, and the national museum

The church in downtown Reykjavik feels distinctly Icelandic — stripped of all ornamentation, returning to simplicity. It's the most austere yet most awe-inspiring church I've ever seen. Outside, there are none of the dazzling Gothic spires, bell towers, or carved beams and painted rafters; inside, none of the gilded decoration or murals. The architect used clean lines, echoing the structure of basalt columns, to sketch out a soaring framework — connecting humanity and the divine through pure form, expressing the grandeur and reverence that religion inspires. The whole structure uses only grey and white. Only the front door is a striking, vivid red — the one bold accent in an otherwise minimalist design, almost ascetic in its restraint.

Iceland's National Museum is small — you can walk through it in an hour or so. Humanity didn't even know an island existed between the American and European continents until the 9th century AD, when people discovered this habitable land and began to settle it. It went through the Viking Age, then came under Norwegian and later Danish rule, until finally, on June 17, 1944, the nation gained independence. The day I left Iceland happened to be its national day. The sky was grey, a light rain falling, and there wasn't a hint of festivity anywhere in the city.

Reykjavik's concert hall is a striking building — a wall made of interlocking grey glass hexagons. It was only later, seeing the basalt canyons, that I understood it was echoing that very landscape. Inside, the palette is black and grey, heavy in feeling. The building sits by the water, and through its enormous glass walls the scenery outside unfolds completely. A long painting on the concert hall's wall felt like the truest portrait of the Icelandic character: a stripe of deep blue, a stripe of pale grey, a stripe of dark grey. I found myself wondering what an Icelander would feel like in Miami, or whether someone from Miami, moved to Iceland, would end up depressed.

Day 1

I was picked up early in the morning by my guide. Juliana, from Portugal, wore a white fur hat and a yellow dress, tall, with a smile that could melt the world.

We started heading into Iceland's interior. The first stop was the rift between the American and Eurasian continental plates — geologically significant, but visually unremarkable.

Waterfall 1

Iceland has countless waterfalls, big and small. A mountain with snow at its peak — as the snow melts, it becomes a waterfall. I couldn't keep track of all their names, so I just numbered them. The first waterfall was like a blue gem set into black volcanic rock — a blue reminiscent of the Blue Lagoon, but clearer.

After the waterfall, we drove to see the geothermal terrain — pits of steaming heat everywhere. Some were basins of boiling water, bubbling away; others were pools of bubbling mud. There was also a modest little geyser — a younger sibling next to Old Faithful in Yellowstone. The English word "geyser" actually comes from Geysir, Iceland's oldest geyser.

Still full of energy, I climbed a small hill for the panoramic view — and was met with a hillside of purple lupines stretching in every direction, an irresistible wave of romance.

It started to rain — something Icelanders take entirely in stride. Every supermarket, every clothing shop sells raincoats. The sky was grey, the earth lush green, the rain falling on and off.

Waterfall 2 — Gullfoss (Golden Waterfall)

This waterfall is spectacular. The river plunges over a cliff face, throwing up a mist, then bends and carves a deep gorge through the open landscape, green water flowing through it. This is how the "Golden Triangle" got its name.

Volcanic crater lake

After a volcanic eruption, a round, iron-red crater formed, and inside it a pool of emerald-green water sits like a gem — a living eye set into the earth.

Some in our group wanted to go horseback riding. While waiting for the others, I chatted briefly with Nicole, the ranch owner. Quick-witted and outspoken, Nicole had come to Iceland on vacation, fallen for a local man, and stayed — married him, and together they now run this ranch. I could easily imagine warm, boisterous Nicole being like a blazing fire on a rainy day among Iceland's quiet, reserved locals.

We'd planned to see another waterfall, but the rain grew so heavy the whole world seemed to blur into chaos, so the group decided to save it for the next day. We had dinner at a restaurant beside the waterfall. I ordered Arctic char, a local fish — delicious. My guide and I shared a table to ourselves, and this free-spirited Portuguese woman told me her story. She was someone who could never quite stop moving, and it was clear from the way she spoke that she'd recently been through a breakup, the wound still fresh — her former partner had left, and she kept glancing back. Good women always seem to get hurt. Laura, from our group, was originally from France but living in Germany, with dark skin — likely of mixed French and African heritage. Cheerful, funny, carrying both African warmth and openness and French humor. We often found restaurants together, ate together, laughed together — it was a good time. I passed along some old Chinese wisdom to her: "A hundred steps after a meal will help you live to ninety-nine," and "Eat until you're seven-tenths full."

That night's hotel backed onto a tall mountain wall, its green face like a shield behind us. It was still raining, but the scenery was too beautiful to waste on sleep. I put my raincoat back on and stepped out for a few minutes. Seabirds wheeled overhead, the mountains green, the land green, every breath full of negative ions. I looked forward to the surprises the next day would bring.

Day 2

Waterfall 3

Early in the morning we drove out to the third waterfall. You can actually walk into a cave behind this one — like a water curtain, the falls rushing down in front of you while you view the world through the mist. The clouds above looked like splashes of that same mist. I was bundled up tightly in my rain jacket and pants.

Continuing on, we reached the site of the major volcanic eruption from a few years back. Green grass, white houses with red roofs, everything calm and peaceful now — impossible to picture the scene back then: the air pollution, the grounded flights. Nature is a moody character.

Waterfall 4

A steel staircase runs up one side of this waterfall, letting you climb up and look down on it from above. It really took everything out of me — I had to stop and catch my breath three or four times on the way up. Exhausting, yes, but the view was boundless. The water rushed past beside me, and after releasing all its force, it wound quietly across the green plain below, moving off into the distance. The mountains, too, no longer stood proud with chests out and heads held high, but bowed down, merging into the land. Iceland — this young land — is so magnificent.

Black sand beach, the arch, and puffins

In the afternoon we reached Iceland's south coast. All of Iceland's rock formed after volcanic eruptions, and it's easily eroded by the pounding sea, carving out all sorts of arches and caves.

Today I finally saw the legendary puffin — the "sea phoenix." Penguins, toucans, and puffins are the three mythical birds in my mind, and seeing a puffin was one of the dreams I'd hoped to fulfill on this trip. Today it finally came true. A couple of photographers, loaded down with long lenses, told me there were puffins on the rocks nearby. After waiting a while, a plump little bird poked its head out of a hole in the rock — black cap, round white belly, small yellow feet. Utterly adorable.

This stretch of beach is known for "sneaker waves" — very dangerous. Apparently a wave once swept up and carried off a tourist's tripod entirely. Standing on the beach, I could see why — even five meters back, the ferocity of the waves was heart-stopping, like a cavalry charge sweeping up the shore.

In the afternoon, we headed to the ice cave. The reason I booked this particular tour was that it included an ice cave. We rode in a special bus with enormous tires that could be inflated or deflated on the move — inflated for less friction on hard roads, deflated for more traction on snow and ice. Approaching the glacier felt like arriving on another planet. Ahead, everything was black, like piles of coal rising and falling across the landscape. Even the streams running through it were black. The glacier was covered in volcanic ash and rock from past eruptions, turning it black, and the meltwater formed black waterfalls and streams. The ground felt hard underfoot, and looking closely, you could see crystal-clear ice beneath the gravel, glowing blue in the sunlight. As the glacier melts, ice caves form — each one constantly changing, collapsing as the ice melts, or new ones forming as the glacier shifts. We put on crampons and hiked about ten minutes up the mountain path before reaching the cave entrance. The cave wound back and forth in brilliant blue, a swift little stream running along the floor beneath our feet. The walls and ceiling were pure white ice, glowing blue in the light. The world is truly wondrous. The ice cave was the highlight of this trip.

Coming out of the cave, still buzzing with excitement, we returned to the little coastal town. It's a beautiful place — atop a green hill stood a small white-walled, red-roofed church, standing tall and serene. Our guide recommended the black-crust pizza — the crust made with volcanic-ash charcoal, black in color. Delicious.

The hotel we stayed at that night had stunning surroundings. Opening the door, an endless green plain stretched out below, laced with winding roads and rivers.

Iceland really is beautiful — the grandeur of Yellowstone combined with the beauty of Hawaii, more delicate than Yellowstone, more grounded than Hawaii. Iceland's beauty is simple and primal: green mountains streaked with white waterfalls, cattle and sheep scattered everywhere. Vast, beautiful, elegant, unpretentious. Even the buildings feel exquisitely considered, in both color and structure — as though every detail had been carefully designed. The reds are never garish or gaudy, but muted with white, toned down, set against the backdrop of green mountains — everything in harmony.

Day 3

Today happened to be Black Friday.

Glacier hike

We set out early this morning to hike the glacier — very exciting. Our luck held: clear skies, the white glacier striking against the deep blue sky. Along the way I worked up quite a sweat, shedding layers as I went. Underfoot were crampons, making walking a real effort. Eventually we reached the blue ice, and bending down at a small blue meltwater stream, I scooped up a handful and drank it — clean and cold. I moved carefully within the boundaries our guide had marked out, taking photos, marveling at nature's wonder. It reminded me of the time years ago when I went on an Alaskan cruise with my parents and brother, walking together on a glacier there too — not even ten years had passed, yet my parents had changed so much.

Iceland is such a cheerful place — even the gas stations are painted a soft pink, utterly adorable.

In the afternoon we reached Glacier Lagoon and Diamond Beach. Glacial meltwater forms a lagoon here, which then flows into the sea. The sky was blue, and when the sun came out the lagoon turned a pale blue-green, chunks of iceberg breaking the surface. Icebergs, worn down by the sea, break into smaller pieces and wash up on the black sand beach — like diamonds set into black velvet, glittering brightly.

Driving east, we came across reindeer — another dream fulfilled.

That night we stayed in a small town called Höfn, on the southeast coast — a clean, tidy fishing village of just over two thousand people. Most people eating at the restaurants were tourists. By the time we finished dinner it was already half past ten, and I was exhausted, yet the sun still hung bright in the sky. Unable to sleep, I went for a walk along the shore. There I met a local woman riding her bicycle along the coastal path — one of the few actual Icelanders I encountered on this whole trip. There was pride and contentment in her voice: "Kids can play outside until midnight and nobody worries. The glaciers are just the view we see every day, whether we look up or down." For her, this little seaside town in Iceland was the edge of the world. It's a kind of life many might envy — without so many choices, content with what one has, at peace within.

Day 4

Today I got a real taste of Iceland's cold. A fierce wind blew in off the sea, cutting straight through my clothes, leaving me chilled to the bone. Only after putting on my rain jacket and pants did I warm up a little. Though it was the same ocean, this felt like an entirely different world from the Caribbean sea. How do people here survive the winter — twenty-four hours of pitch darkness, cold as an icebox? Iceland's lighthouses are painted yellow and orange, which overturned my whole mental image of what a lighthouse should look like. Because of the cold, we took in the scenery shivering, and every photo came out with everyone looking reluctant and unwilling.

Along the way we stopped in a small town in the east with an artistic feel. In the biting wind, I had the best salmon roll of the trip.

Continuing north, patches of snow still clung to the black mountain peaks outside the window. As it melted, it streaked the green mountainsides with white waterfalls, and in the fields below, round, fluffy sheep grazed with their heads down in the green grass. That evening we soaked in the hot springs at Vök — white snowy mountains, green fields, wildflowers of every color, our bodies submerged in the warm water, taking in the view. The scalding water drove out the chill the sea wind had driven into us all day.

At the hotel that night, when I turned on the tap, the hot water carried a faint smell of sulfur — geothermal spring water, safe for bathing; the cold water was ice-cold, natural spring water.

We drove around the small town looking for somewhere to eat. On a Saturday night, the streets were eerily silent. One pizza place had a bit of life to it, but even there, mostly tourists.

Day 5

We continued north toward Iceland's second-largest city. Along the way we passed through the northern "Diamond Circle."

Basalt canyon

Waterfall 5

A waterfall pours down over a fan of basalt columns spread out like a folding screen. In Iceland you often see clusters of neatly arranged, column-like basalt rock — the terrain formed as lava cooled evenly after an eruption. Reykjavik's concert hall, with its glass walls, was modeled directly on this basalt structure. Circling around behind the falls, you reach the famous basalt canyon itself.

Waterfall 6

Dettifoss is the second-largest waterfall in Europe — truly powerful. But after so many waterfalls one after another, I confess I was starting to feel a bit numb to them.

We had lunch at Sky Lagoon. Compared to the Blue Lagoon, I actually preferred this one — smaller in scale, but set among snowy mountains and lakes, the scenery even more beautiful. Sadly, our schedule was too tight to really enjoy it. Next time, perhaps.

This region is volcanically active — pit after pit, some steaming, some a pot of boiling water, some bubbling mud, gurgling away. The surrounding mountains are all flat-topped, shaped by past eruptions. Dimmuborgir means "black castles" — as the lava cooled, it formed all sorts of rock formations, caves, and arches, and walking through it feels like wandering a maze.

Waterfall 7

This was the last waterfall of the trip — horseshoe-shaped, as if a great bucket of water were being poured from the sky. Truly spectacular. It's known as "God's Waterfall." According to legend, after Iceland decided to convert to Christianity, the statues of the old Norse gods were thrown into this waterfall — and so it earned its name.

By evening we reached Iceland's second-largest city, the capital of the north. After five days moving through nature, returning to civilization meant seeing traffic and crowds again. The town had its own character — even the pedestrian crossing lights were shaped like little red hearts. After dinner we wandered the town, climbing a small hill to see the church at its top — another grey, minimalist structure. In the distance, a cruise ship sat in the harbor, dwarfing the little town beside it. Our guide told us that many cruises to the Arctic and Greenland depart from here. The end of my journey was someone else's starting point.

Day 6

On the last day of the trip, we set out early by boat to go whale watching. My luck held once again — we saw several whales breaching and diving. Through the mist, snow-capped mountains on the far shore appeared and disappeared, and along the green coastline stood white houses with red roofs — scenery strikingly similar to what I'd seen on the drive from the airport into town on my very first day. Eight days of travel, and it felt like the circle had closed.

At last, back in Reykjavík — back to where it all began.

Returning to downtown Reykjavík felt like waking from a dream — a dream in which I'd traveled in a small group around this green, volcanic island, and now the dream was over and I was back in Reykjavík. After eight days in this country, I still couldn't spell or pronounce the name of its capital.

Walking through the city center, looking out at the sea and the mountains — six days earlier, I'd wondered curiously what lay behind that screen-like wall of mountains blocking my view. Now I knew: green mountain after green mountain, field after field of green grass, waterfall after waterfall streaked down the slopes, and everywhere, seas of purple lupine.

The next morning's early flight would take me out of Iceland — on the country's national day, as it happened. It was raining lightly, the sky overcast, no trace of celebration on the streets. I think that's simply the Icelandic temperament: no great highs, no great lows — living quietly, cherishing the present moment.

Reflections on Iceland

I find myself wondering — what makes Iceland unique? Iceland is a clean, beautiful fairy tale of a place. Small, yet it has everything. Its green mountains are streaked with countless waterfalls — but if you've seen Iguazu or Niagara, Iceland's waterfalls won't dazzle you. Iceland has glaciers and icebergs — but if you've been to Antarctica, its glaciers will seem small by comparison. Iceland has geysers and geothermal terrain — but if you've been to Yellowstone and seen Old Faithful, Iceland's geysers will disappoint. And yet, the quiet, peaceful quality of Iceland is something you won't find anywhere else. Its beauty is the beauty of a fairy tale set apart from the world — the midnight sun, the silent streets, mountains neither too tall nor too short — all of it giving a strange, almost science-fictional unreality.

The people of Iceland are calm and content. When desire is worn down close to nothing, what's left is gratitude and contentment.

The Weather

In June, the Icelandic sun hangs in the sky all day long; even at midnight the sky stays bright. My body felt like a perpetual motion machine, never quite stopping. Every night I had to draw the thick curtains and stuff the hotel towels into the gaps to block out every sliver of light — only then, in total darkness, would drowsiness finally settle over me. Tired, yet unable to sleep. Even in summer, clear days are rare and rain is common. The wind is strong; in the east, gusting off the sea, it cuts straight to the bone.

The Food

Icelandic food is exceedingly simple. I found a highly rated restaurant on Google Maps called Iceland Street Food, and inside there was — soup. Lamb soup, seafood soup, vegetable soup. It tasted decent enough, but it was hardly a "restaurant" — more of a quick-service stall. On the final night of the trip, the same thing happened again: a highly rated restaurant that turned out to serve only meat soup and vegetable soup. Icelanders like to hollow out a loaf of bread and use it as a bowl for their soup.

The Waterfalls

Waterfalls are everywhere in Iceland — big and small, high and low, draped like ribbons over the green mountainsides.

Iceland's mountains are never very tall — the highest reaches only about 1,500 meters. The island's landscape is geologically young, only a few million years old, formed by volcanic eruptions as the Eurasian and North American plates pulled apart. The resulting basalt is relatively soft, and combined with glacial erosion, this has kept the mountains low — like rows of flat-topped garden walls. Everest, by contrast, was formed by continental plates colliding, over tens of millions of years.